


a battle, a war, a growing up

by dustbottle



Series: Andreil: Into The Future [5]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew Minyard Has Feelings, Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minyard-Josten Rivalry, POV Andrew Minyard, Post-Canon, Reunions, Soft Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-11 00:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15303666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbottle/pseuds/dustbottle
Summary: “Or maybe you should get a cat,” Neil says, grinning, and that is – well. It’s a joke, obviously, a throw-away comment, obviously, it’s ridiculous,obviously, but it’s–It’s something to think about.(Or: The slow evolution of Andrew and the cats. And Neil. Obviously.)





	a battle, a war, a growing up

**Author's Note:**

> Title is based on this quote by James Baldwin: _“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.”_
> 
> This is a sequel to [missing you (is all i am)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12742830), [Minyard-Josten: A Rivalry For The Ages](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11214843), [Blossom Under Kindness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11438940), and [The Self I Am](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11877519). It can be read separately, but I would recommend reading the other parts first. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: non-explicit references to scars and past injuries, non-explicit references to past abuse, descriptions of mental health issues.

The first time Neil mentions it, Andrew can honestly say he has never thought about it. _Maybe you should get a cat._ It’s a passing comment, an offhand joke, nothing more – except for how after Neil says it, the idea won’t leave him alone.

Andrew refuses to entertain the thought at first, tries to discard it as ridiculous and unlike him, not to mention desperately ill-advised – in his opinion, someone as damaged as him shouldn’t take care of any living thing. But for some reason, no matter how much he tells himself he isn’t considering it, the idea keeps playing through his head.

The thing is, Andrew remembers the foster home on the outskirts of Sacramento where the neighbours had a cat; his perfect memory wouldn’t have let him forget even if he’d wanted to, and as it is, it doesn’t even register on the list of memories he might have wanted to leave behind.

Andrew had been eight years old, and the foster parents unremarkable, in that they were mostly just neglectful rather than actively abusive; he had been in their run-down house for no more than two months before they decided to get rid of him.

But the neighbours had a cat, a scrappy thing with grey fur and intelligent eyes. Andrew never learned its name, but it always used to sit on the street corner when he came home from school. It was almost like it sat there waiting for him, aloof and regally unbothered by the relentless Californian sun. Andrew had just read Harry Potter in class; he’d hated himself for secretly wishing the cat was Professor McGonagall, coming to take him away.

He should have known at that point that wishes never came true.

*

In the weeks after Neil has gone back to Palmetto, the thought stays at the back of Andrew’s mind, foreign but mostly unobtrusive. Life goes on as normal, slipping into routine with alarming ease. Team practice twice a day, cardio blocks at the stadium gym, cooking something from the meal plan every night and washing it away with half a pint of double fudge ice cream; it’s all completely predictable, mostly dull on the days it doesn’t grate at his nerves.

Nothing is out of the ordinary, except for how Andrew still feels a little off-balance without Neil by his side. It’s not obvious enough to be noticeable to anyone but himself and probably Neil, but it’s more than sufficient to set him on edge.

It’s when he comes home to an empty apartment again – his team lost to Boyd’s, 7-5, because their offence is a joke and Andrew’s sub is an idiot – that he starts seriously considering it.

The city is buzzing and boundlessly alive around him, but Andrew’s mind is flat with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from beating himself bloody against the constraints of his own spiralling thoughts. It’s late, way after midnight, too late to call Neil and expect him to pick up the phone – they’re in the same time zone, but Neil has a game tomorrow, and he needs his energy if he wants to get on a good enough team after graduation to appease the Moriyamas.

Andrew stands in the dark hallway of his silent apartment for what might be minutes or hours, his keys in one hand and his phone in the other; he feels numb and tired and oddly adrift, and it occurs to him that having something living around might – well, it might actually _help_.

It sounds ludicrous. It sounds surreal.

It sounds like the only thing to do.

*

He brings it up to Bee during their monthly Skype call, and he’s surprised despite himself when she doesn’t even blink. Instead, she is immediately and wholeheartedly supportive of the idea, and doesn’t hesitate to let him know. Even through the slightly pixelated screen, Andrew can see the approving sparkle in her eyes.

Andrew knows Bee likes cats – the glass cat figurine he got her for her birthday is always at the front of the display no matter how many times she rearranges her collection. She even has a cat at home, an ancient and deeply grumpy rescue that Andrew tries not to feel too similar to.

“You have been taking care of people for years, Andrew,” Bee tells him, her voice as kind and calm as it has always been, “Aaron and Nicky, even Kevin. And Neil, of course. This is not so different when you think about it.” She falls silent for a while; the familiar background noise of her office at Reddin filters through the shaky internet connection and into Andrew’s Boston living room. Even though there are two screens and countless miles between them, it feels like Bee is looking straight at him when she continues, “If anything, it’s a sign of growth that you’re considering taking on this new responsibility. Allow yourself that growth. You deserve it.”

Andrew has long since stopped scoffing at Bee’s optimism or her unwavering trust; he listens to her instead. Her quiet encouragement doesn’t make him as uncomfortable as it would have before.  

When he ends the call, he feels settled, the same way talking to Bee had made him feel when he was still at Palmetto. Mulling it over again in the privacy of his mind, he can admit that his therapist has a point: there’s something unexpectedly significant about finding himself in the position of helping something damaged, instead of only ever being the one in need of help. It’s the first time he realises that doing this wouldn’t only help _him_ , it would also be _a good thing to do_ **–** it’s the first time he truly understands it, and suddenly he _wants_ it.

Wanting anything other than Neil is a new experience, or maybe it’s that he’s finally allowing himself to feel it. Andrew suspects he’s caught glimpses of it before – stopping an impossible ball in the last seconds of a game, accelerating onto an empty highway in the middle of the night, keeping Aaron from succumbing to addiction by the skin of his teeth – but he’s always snuffed it out before it could grow. The raw truth of it is terrifying, unstoppable and impossible to control. He’s allowing it to become less rare.

*

Andrew visits the shelter on a dreary November afternoon, right after practice. The season is now in full swing, with the game against the Ohio Warriors coming up next, high energy and higher stakes; he should probably focus on that, but he can’t bring himself to care enough without Neil by his side.  

Compared to the rowdiness of team practice, the quiet serenity of the shelter is a shock to the system. An offensively preppy volunteer leads him out of the main building and into another one, filled with medium-sized cages on either side. Andrew looks around and sees glittering eyes and swishing tails everywhere; the sheer overwhelming amount of meowing and purring makes it almost impossible to think. He thinks that might actually come in useful sometimes.

The volunteer seems prepared to guide him around, but something about his silence quickly convinces her to leave him to wander around alone; Andrew can tell she recognizes him, but she doesn’t mention it, which he almost appreciates. He watches as the girl walks to one of the cages closest to the door and sticks her fingers through the grate; she smiles, murmuring something too low to overhear, and Andrew turns away.

These cats are cast-offs, the volunteer had told him as they walked, her eyes bright with sincerity and righteous indignation; they’re unused to kindness, damaged and unwanted. Walking past the cages, Andrew tries not to think about how familiar that sounds.

It doesn’t take him long to make his selection. He has already decided to choose two cats; most cats do well with others, the internet had told him, and Andrew is away from home often enough that it would be cruelty not to prepare for it. He decides on two younger cats occupying adjacent cages near the back wall, one black and one grey. When he points them out to the volunteer, she grins at him, her ponytail bouncing behind her as she makes her way over.

“Their names are King and Sir,” she informs him, indicating each of the cats in turn. “They’re brothers. They were brought in together last year – I’m glad they won’t get separated.”

Andrew has an excellent poker face, but it still takes everything he has not to react to that statement; the irony is so glaringly obvious it’s almost funny. Had the court-ordered drugs still been in his system, scrambling his mind and eradicating his control, he would have laughed; now it mostly just hurts, a dull, throbbing emptiness at the base of his skull. The ache is familiar – Andrew forces himself not to blink, and endures.

Leaning in, he takes a closer look at the cats. The grey one glares at him distrustfully, flicking his tail in a restless, anxious rhythm; his brother stays safely at the back of his cage, following Andrew’s movements with careful curiosity.

Andrew doesn’t try to touch either of them. He watches as the volunteer coaxes both cats out of their cages and into the carriers he brought, happily chattering away about vaccinations and check-ups and proper animal care as she does it. He signs the necessary paperwork. He leaves with a carrier in each hand and a nod at the volunteer, trying not to glare with as much hostility as usual; he pretends not to notice the way her grin relaxes into something more genuine at that.

When he gets back to the apartment, darkness is falling and the unceasing rain has turned to sleet. Andrew brings the cat carriers inside first, then walks back out to his car for the rest of his supplies; he returns to find both cats cautiously venturing out into the living room. Leaving them to sniff around on their own, he retreats to the kitchen to fix himself dinner.  

Later that night, Andrew watches as the cats settle down behind the couch, safely secluded and out of the way; as jumpy as they still are, they are clearly comforted by each other’s proximity. Instead of opening that particular can of worms, Andrew snaps a picture and sends it to Neil without explanation.

Neil replies thirty minutes later after the Foxes’ evening practice, predictable as rain, a string of question marks followed immediately by a phone call. And if Andrew has to bite down on a smile before picking up the phone, well – no one but the cats is there to see.

*

After the first few days, the cats adapt to their new surroundings with remarkable ease. Andrew mostly just lets them be, and somehow they warm up to him more and more. Slowly, tentatively, they start coming out from behind the couch. They explore the living room, then the entire apartment. They find out where the treats are kept.

The black one, King, starts jumping on the couch with him after a couple of weeks, nervously flicking his tail as if daring himself not to run away; not to be outdone by his brother, Sir makes it a point from then on to always be in Andrew’s line of sight, though still just out of arm’s reach. Andrew watches calmly, quietly, and understands.

It’s early December the first time King gingerly climbs on his lap and immediately curls up to go to sleep. Andrew is surprised when he doesn’t tense up with the unexpected weight, doesn’t want to lash out; even now, even after all these years with Neil, navigating the treacherous maze of touch and memory is still a minefield most of the time. Maybe that will never change – then again, maybe it will.

Andrew runs a gentle hand down the length of King’s spine, feels his vibrating purr and the languid arch of his back. On the other side of the couch, Sir jumps on the armrest to keep a careful eye on the both of them; he doesn’t come closer, but he feels safe enough now to drowse in plain sight, blinking slowly in the weak winter sun, his green eyes half-closed. When Andrew shifts slightly, Sir stirs and opens his eyes, but doesn’t leave; his glare is half-hearted at best.

Sitting together in silence, Andrew feels a strange sort of kinship with these cats. They’re not fine, not by a long shot. But for the moment, they’re almost okay.

*

When Neil visits Boston again, he’s still giddy with the Foxes having made spring championships, and it should be annoying but somehow it isn’t. It’s only the second time he’s been to Andrew’s apartment, the first time he’s meeting the cats, and Andrew quietly catalogues the way Neil watches them, then him; the way he looks torn between bemusement and fascination, eyes bright and sharp with curiosity.

Unsurprisingly, King immediately loves Neil, following him everywhere and begging for attention at every opportunity. Sir warily keeps his distance, always picking a spot close to Andrew to semi-accidentally go to sleep in and flitting along the walls like a grumpy, light-footed shadow whenever Neil’s in the room. Andrew tries not to feel even the tiniest bit smug about that, and doesn’t quite succeed.

He doesn’t realize Neil has noticed Sir’s behaviour until a few days later. It’s early in the morning still, the drowsing city outside as quiet as it ever gets. Andrew’s making coffee, the familiar process soothing and safe. Neil is standing close, watching him, looking content in faded track pants and one of Andrew’s old sweatshirts, his hair a mess of curls; they’re not touching but they’re close enough to, barely a breath apart. It’s been a bad night, but most bad nights no longer make Andrew want to shut down; somehow, even the bad nights are easier with Neil by his side.

Sir runs into the kitchen, headbutts Andrew’s legs, then bolts without acknowledging Neil at all. Neil huffs out a breath, quietly amused. “I have to admit I do see the resemblance,” he remarks lightly, his tone teasing and fond; he moves closer, an offering, steady and unassuming.

Andrew looks up from the coffee maker and meets Neil’s searching gaze, studies his familiar features, lingers despite himself on the pale dusting of freckles across his nose, the satiny smoothness of the scars littering his cheeks. There are no more sharp edges to the way he feels about Neil; there is only trust, hard-won but utterly true.

He realizes he's been silent too long, staring at Neil as he painstakingly claws his way back to the present, half-lost still inside the treacherous twists and turns of the night. He clears his throat, vaguely annoyed at himself but without any of the heat it would have had before.

“Bold words from someone in stabbing range,” he finally says, an automatic response, an empty threat; his tone is sharp but his meaning isn’t, and he knows they both know it.

Neil laughs with his whole face, and Andrew feels his heart clench painfully in his chest. He contradicts his own harsh words by closing the distance, watching Neil in wordless question; at Neil’s nod, Andrew leans in and buries his face in Neil’s neck. He closes his eyes and focuses on timing his breaths to Neil’s, trying to contain the wildfire of his spiralling thoughts. He breathes, in and out, in and out, in and out, and slowly relearns how to anchor himself.

Eventually, of course, even Sir is reluctantly won over by Neil’s careful hands and steady, undemanding attention. He keeps up the distrustful attitude for an admirable time, but after a while he just gives up. Andrew comes back from his grocery run one day to find Neil on the floor, waiting patiently as Sir cautiously sniffs his outstretched hand. The quiet moment stretches until Sir lets out a single, defeated purr and closes his eyes, looking somewhere between disgruntled and mollified as he finally allows Neil to pet his head. Somehow, Andrew can relate.

Neil glances up at Andrew with his entire heart in his eyes and smiles, looking honoured and ridiculously pleased as he strokes Sir’s grey back. Andrew keeps watching him long after he’s looked away, torn between frightening tenderness and helpless anger and not knowing what to do with either. Neil fits into his apartment, into his _life_ , almost too well, from his attentiveness to his sharp resilience to his endless trust; maybe Andrew shouldn’t be surprised by the reality of him after so long, but he always is.

The unescapable truth of his own vulnerability used to feel like a prison sentence, an impossible weight dragging him down. It doesn’t anymore; sometimes he doesn’t notice progress, but it’s always there. Andrew makes a note of it. Then he curls his hands into fists and stays, and stays, and stays.

*

It’s early March, and the Foxes have proceeded past the first round of death matches by the skin of their teeth. Their success has more to do with offensive strength than defensive capacity; the Foxes’ current starting goalie is unreliable and too slow, and doesn’t communicate with his backliners. Despite his best efforts, Andrew has heard all about it through an increasingly frustrated Neil.

The Foxes are facing off against the Binghamton Bearcats in the third round, just like they had almost exactly four years ago. Andrew has been restless with the thought all day, concern a heavy, unyielding weight in his chest. Robin will be there with Neil every step of the way, Nathan and Riko are long dead, and Neil is under iron-clad Moriyama protection; knowing all that doesn’t help as much as it should.

Neil had sounded tense but determined on the phone yesterday, refusing to acknowledge any possible outcome other than a win. He hadn’t even mentioned Binghamton, his focus single-minded as ever, but Andrew still can’t seem to let it go. Even though he usually refuses to indulge Neil’s Exy obsession, this time he’d let him talk; he’d relearned how to breathe to the familiar cadence of Neil’s voice.

The night of the game Andrew is on the couch in his living room, King on his lap and Sir sleeping nearby. He has no practice tonight, and there’s nothing else for him to do, which is the only reason he finds himself flipping over to the live coverage on ESPN; that reasoning doesn’t account for the swoop in his stomach when the camera pans toward Neil, though.

Neil looks good, calm and strong as he leads the Foxes through warm-up laps and stretches. Andrew watches him give his final remarks to the team, watches him step onto the court for a handshake with the opposing captain, keeps watching as he wins the Foxes first serve. Odds are good, but Andrew can still see the barely-restrained tension in Neil’s frame as he enters the court and lines up at half-court. Andrew spares a glance for the cats, still sleeping, relaxed and completely unconcerned; then the buzzer sounds, and Neil is off.

The game starts off rocky. The Foxes had taken a hit when most of their starting defensive line graduated last year, and it still shows; defence is floundering, overwhelmed by the Bearcats’ relentless aggression, and there’s nothing Neil can do about it. Passes are intercepted, the Bearcats are unafraid to resort to violence, and Neil is simply not getting to the ball enough to make up for the gaps in their defence. It’s a miracle he manages to score at all with both Bearcat backliners hounding him every step of the way, but it’s not enough. At half-time, the Foxes are trailing the Bearcats by two points.

Second half is a completely different story. The Foxes may be fractured and difficult but they know how to pull together and face down a disadvantage, and they’re better than the Bearcats. It doesn’t take long for the Foxes to close the point gap. Though clearly taken aback by the renewed onslaught, the Bearcats rally quickly, and the game spirals further out of control; players are fouling each other left and right, and the resulting brawls leave more than one Fox yellow-carded and grimacing in pain. 

The moment that decides the score comes three minutes before the end, when Neil finally pulls away from the backliners tripping him up at every turn and flies down the court, bouncing the ball off the wall every ten steps. Even with his general indifference about Exy, Andrew feels a little breathless watching him. Neil doesn’t waste any time as he aims and shoots in one fluid move, putting all his pent-up frustration behind the shot; the goal lights up red before either of his marks have managed to catch up.

It’s an incredible point at a vital time; Neil wheels around to celebrate with the rest of the team, viciously triumphant. Andrew catches a glimpse of Wymack pounding his fist on the plexiglass with a fierce grin on his face, of Robin cheering with the other subs as the crowd goes wild.

The remainder of the game is a riot of noise, a desperate sprint to the finish line with Neil in the lead. When the buzzer sounds on a Fox victory, Andrew huffs and looks away from the screen. “Idiot,” he remarks to no one in particular, and brushes down the length of King’s sleeping spine.

As captain, Neil is usually selected for post-game interviews, and today is no different. The first few questions are straightforward and boring enough for Neil to get away with bland one-liners and neutral statements. That restraint goes out the window when a reporter shoves a microphone under his nose and asks bluntly, “We could all see you struggling out there today, at points it was hard to watch. Can you even face the Ravens in this shape?”

Neil’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes flash dangerously as he looks up at the reporter. “As I understand it, we just won, so I’m not sure where this lack of faith is coming from,” Neil says silkily, then talks over the reporter when he starts asking another question, “Besides, the Ravens are nowhere near invincible. Or did you forget who were the first to beat them?”

There’s a short silence as the reporters process Neil’s words; when they launch into another barrage of irrelevant questions, Neil turns away, effectively ending the press conference. Andrew sighs and moves King from his lap, ignoring his sleepy protest; he finds his phone in time to answer Neil’s incoming call.

*

It’s a bad day, a bad week. Andrew hasn’t felt this disconnected in years, simultaneously empty and buzzing out of his skin. He’s out of sorts, achy and nauseous with the last vestiges of a cold; it’s reminiscent enough of the symptoms of withdrawal that it trips him up completely. He keeps losing track of time, keeps getting lost in memories that cut deep and sharp like knives.

He hasn’t talked to Neil in a while, who is settling in with his new team down in Atlanta; their schedules don’t match up, and Andrew keeps finding excuses to withdraw. He knows he should reach out to Bee, but he can’t make himself do it. It’s increasingly difficult to get out of his own head.

He gets home from practice tense and exhausted. He simultaneously wants to smoke and doesn’t, his hands itching with useless agitation; he’s too restless to make dinner or do anything productive. He ends up in the living room after an indeterminate amount of time, still wearing his coat and his shoes, still wound tight with familiar strain. The cats are napping in the patches of afternoon sunlight on the dark carpet, flicking their tails in a lazy, irregular rhythm. Not knowing what else to do, Andrew sits down on the living room floor and silently watches them sleep.

Sir wakes up and makes his meandering way over to him, nimble and unhurried. He sits down a scant few inches from Andrew’s leg, just out of easy reach, watching him with studied disinterest for a while before finally moving closer. He makes himself comfortable within petting distance, resting his grey head on his paws; it’s a sign of grudging trust that he’s letting his guard down at all, and Andrew knows it. 

Andrew lies on his back on the floor and closes his heavy eyes; he feels more than hears when King pads over and curls up into his side, his presence warm and unthreatening. Andrew lets the everyday sounds of the cats and the apartment and the city wash over him unchallenged, and listens. There’s something unexpectedly peaceful about the sleepy purring of two sun-lazy cats; it’s a different brand of reassurance from Neil’s fire, his unbreakable will to live, but it’s comforting just the same.

He doesn’t know how much time passes; when he opens his eyes, darkness is starting to creep in along the walls, and the cats are getting antsy with the delay of their dinner. Andrew has a crick in his neck and a heavy soreness in his limbs, but he feels more rested than after his broken, terror-raw nights, his mind a little more clear. He gets up and feeds the cats; he can’t quite face dinner, but he does make himself a hot chocolate, adding enough marshmallows to make his team nutritionist want to retire. Sitting at the kitchen counter, he pulls out his phone and doesn’t give himself time to reconsider.

Bee picks up on the first ring, just like she always does, and Andrew finally exhales.

*

Spring championships bring another game against the Hawks, and the inexplicable popularity of the Minyard-Josten rivalry means it’s the most highly-anticipated game of the month. Andrew watches Neil enter the Boston court from his position in goal and hears the frenzied roar of the crowd, the thunderous stomping of thousands of feet; he shifts his weight and makes himself look away.

The buzzer sounds to signal the start of the game, and both teams take off flying. Neil looks solid on the court, strong and fierce, even with that ridiculous bandana he insists on wearing, and the crowd explodes with noise every time he makes it to the goal. Andrew sighs internally, and shuts him out.

At half-time, both teams are balanced at 3-3; second half is a rapid descent into chaos. The longer the stalemate continues, the more restless Neil gets; he gets carded when he picks a fight with his backliner mark, and barely avoids a red for mouthing off at the ref. His mounting frustration makes him sloppy enough to fumble some easy passes but also completely unpredictable; he scores once on Andrew and twice on his sub before finally being subbed off himself. None of his fellow strikers manage to score.

The Rebels win by one point. The small margin means the Hawks still have a realistic chance of making the fourth round, but that doesn’t matter in the immediate aftermath. The teams line up at half-court to shake hands; Andrew doesn’t miss the way Neil lingers on him, the way his eyes glitter with emotion behind the grate of his helmet. Neil looks furious with both himself and the score, but there’s something else behind it, something honest and unfettered and raw, something that makes the bottom drop out of Andrew’s stomach with want.

Just when it seems like Neil is going to let go, he leans in closer. He looks at Andrew with steady eyes, unsmiling and utterly familiar; neither of them speaks or moves away, and the moment stretches on. Andrew is dimly aware of the crowd going wild around them, and doesn’t care, doesn’t care, doesn’t care.

The moment breaks when a teammate unceremoniously grabs Neil by the arm and tries to drag him off – Carter, the other Hawk striker, glaring at Andrew in obvious dislike. Neil startles and wrenches out of her grip; a flash of real temper flares behind his eyes, and is quickly and ruthlessly snuffed out. Waving Carter off, Neil looks back at Andrew and smirks; then he offers a two-fingered salute and stomps off the court. He doesn’t acknowledge either his coach or the assembled press, and Andrew stands and watches him go.

He drives home right after the game. His teammates don’t try to stop him or invite him out; Andrew doesn’t talk to them if he can help it, and they mostly leave him alone in return, which works out well for everyone involved. He doesn’t know or care what bullshit story Neil tells his team to get away for the night, but he arrives fifteen minutes later, looking freshly showered and relaxed.

The cats immediately start crowding around Neil’s legs, begging loudly for attention like they didn’t just do the exact same thing to Andrew. Neil indulges them for a moment before coming out of his crouch and stepping into the living room. When he looks at Andrew, his ice blue eyes are clear and calm. “Hey,” Neil says, voice low and private like it’s the most important thing he’s ever said, and smiles. Andrew glances at him in wordless acknowledgement, then moves closer, and doesn’t miss the way Neil’s entire face softens in response.

It’s been a while since they’ve been together like this, longer than either of them meant. It’s still hard, but after almost two years, being apart has also become normal. Andrew struggles every day not to slip into indifference, to acknowledge how far he’s come and how far he could go. And through it all, through absence and adversity and painful truth, Andrew still wants Neil; that’s hard, too. He’s learning to accept it, learning not to resent it, learning to recognize his apathy, and learning not to give in. It’s the fight of a lifetime; it’s a fight he plans to win.   

“Hey,” Neil says again, drawing Andrew’s attention back to him; Andrew looks up to find Neil’s eyes already on him, steady and familiar. The warm affection in his gaze, so at odds with the sharp lines of his face and the damage carved across it, is hard to bear and impossible to resist; Andrew takes another step, is rewarded with a crooked smile. “You were so good tonight, Andrew,” Neil says softly, too sincere; Andrew scoffs and looks away, trying to ignore the way his heart clenches in his chest.

“So I talked to my agent,” Neil says into the silence, and Andrew really starts paying attention, interest piqued by the sudden trace of apprehension in Neil’s voice. “The Rebels are interested. She thinks I might be able to transfer next season.” He falls silent again, uncharacteristically hesitant, eyes gone luminous with expectation and something else. “What do you think?”

Andrew doesn’t know what to say; he feels suddenly winded, forces himself to take a measured breath. “You might finally end up on the winning team,” he eventually manages, and it’s not what he really wants to say but everything else feels too big, too grand, too empty; Neil breathes out a quiet laugh, and doesn’t say anything else, and it’s not quite enough. Neil’s gaze is an inferno, and Andrew _wants_.

The tension builds, and builds, and holds.

Andrew does the only thing he can do; he closes the distance.

“Yes or no?” he asks, low in the quiet, and Neil is nodding before he’s even finished the question, and that’s familiar, too. When they kiss, it feels like confirmation.

Andrew catches Neil’s face in hands that don’t tremble but want to; Neil makes a sound low in his throat and leans into the kiss, trusting and trusted. They’re not touching anywhere else, Neil as instinctively mindful of his boundaries as he’s always been. Andrew taps his wrist in wordless permission, and Neil’s hands come up to tangle in his hair, not grabbing but simply holding on.

They kiss for what feels like a lifetime. Andrew isn’t religious, but he finds all the meaning he needs in the pale column of Neil’s throat, his hitching breath, his earnest trust. He kisses him until he feels the tension in Neil’s spine unwind, until all he can hear is the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears.

They won’t go any further than this tonight; it’s late, they’re both tired, they haven’t seen each other in too long, and intimacy has become easier over the years but it’s still hard. King sneaks into the bedroom with them when they start getting ready for bed, and it isn’t long before Sir follows and makes himself comfortable between the pillows. Andrew can feel Neil studying him, looking content and blurry with exhaustion; he ignores it with the ease of long practice. He only looks up when Neil breaks the silence.

“So you think I should do it?” Neil asks, circling back to their previous conversation, always wanting to make sure, always refusing to assume. It’s a greater gift than he realizes, and a greater gift than Andrew knows what to do with. Andrew considers the question; he knows he doesn’t need to say anything for Neil to understand, but he wants to say this, wants Neil to hear it and believe it, so he does.

“It’s a yes, Neil,” he says, and watches Neil’s slow smile, and _feels_.

*

It’s summer in Boston when Neil moves in; the sun is high and bright in the sky, beating down on the pavement outside, ever-present and completely unforgiving. Neil is wearing a loose-fitting shirt that exposes the hollow of his throat and part of his collarbones; the sight of it has been driving Andrew mad all day.

The moving process doesn’t take long; after half a lifetime on the run, Neil has never quite shaken the habit of packing light. He’s only brought his car and a couple of boxes filled with sports gear and clothes; he’s left all his furniture in Atlanta without a second thought.

Despite the relative lack of new stuff, the cats are having a field day, sniffing around and jumping in half-unpacked boxes every chance they get; Andrew keeps tripping over them as they wind their slender bodies excitedly around his legs. When they do the same to Neil, he smiles and pets their fluffy heads like it's the most natural thing in the world, like he isn't a fire-hardened mobster's son with battle scars and a barbed-wire tongue, and it shouldn't fit but somehow does. Andrew feels something within him crack and settle at the softness of the gesture, and he has to look away.

When Andrew retreats to the balcony for a cigarette, Neil follows him outside. They're close but not touching; in the background, the city clamours on, hazy and faraway. Andrew leans back against the sun-warm wall and looks at Neil, golden-edged and beautiful in the slanted evening light. He thinks about Neil being here with him, to stay this time; he thinks about forever, tastes the edges of the word. It doesn’t sting as much as he might have expected.

As if sensing his gaze, Neil turns his head in Andrew’s direction and smiles, slow and sure; it’s a peaceful expression, almost sweet, the opposite of his raised hackles everywhere else. A trace of heat simmers quietly underneath, and Andrew keeps getting caught on it, drawn in like a moth to a flame. Any distance between them is suddenly unbearable.

Andrew moves closer and watches Neil swallow, always so responsive for him, watches the way his gaze keeps flickering to his lips before coming back to his eyes, an endless circuit of feverish intensity. He’s whispering yes before Andrew can ask, breathless already and adamant, and Andrew kisses him like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do, because it is. He is nowhere near as unaffected by Neil, by _this_ , as he once wished to be; he thinks that perhaps he is better for it.

Andrew drags Neil’s full bottom lip between his teeth, lingering on it, and Neil sighs brokenly into his mouth, his breath coming short and fast; he already sounds wrecked, already sounds like he’s breaking apart, and Andrew wants to touch him everywhere, wants to feel him shatter and let go, and suddenly they really need to be inside.

Of course the cats try to follow them into the bedroom, nosy bastards that they are, and Andrew has to break away from Neil to carry them out; the short interval gives him time to clear his head and calm his racing heart, time he doesn’t want to admit he needs but sometimes still does. He has to go back out as soon as he closes the door; the cats won’t stop meowing in that high-pitched way that means they need to be fed, and Andrew once read that adult cats don’t meow at other cats to communicate, only at humans, and Neil is snorting with laughter on the bed, and he doesn’t understand why any of that is connecting in his brain to make him feel warm and solid and safe, but it is, and it does.

Neil is still laughing when he gets back, his face creasing with helpless mirth, and Andrew looks at him and can’t quite catch his breath. When he kisses him again, he relishes the way Neil’s laughter turns seamlessly into a moan.

They kiss for what feels like forever, and Andrew lets himself get a little lost in it. He kisses the marred expanse of perfect skin, the constellations of freckles brought out by the summer sun, moves lower to bite his way along the collarbones that have been taunting him all day. Neil breathes out a whispery sigh and clenches his hands in the sheets, clearly desperate for something to hold onto but never taking what isn’t explicitly given; Andrew finds his hand and entwines their fingers, and Neil grabs on and doesn’t let go.

Neil leans in to press a wet kiss to the side of his neck, lingers over his thundering pulse like he just can’t help himself; Andrew shudders and shudders with it, full-body, his breath catching in his throat. He thumbs at one of Neil’s sensitive nipples in retaliation, worrying it through the flimsy material of his ridiculous shirt; Neil jerks and cries out, voice hoarse and throat working around nothing. It’s like they’re livewires endlessly feeding into each other, and Andrew is turned on and so alive he might burst with it, and it’s terrifying and breathtaking and _real_.

He kneels up to pull his shirt over his head, revels in the way Neil’s eyes darken as they rove over his skin; there’s hunger in his gaze, and Andrew feels safe with his hunger like he feels safe with everything else. “I want to get you off. Yes or no?” Andrew asks, clear and calm as he can, and watches Neil’s face go slack with helpless arousal.

“Yes, always yes, I–” Neil says immediately, voice blown, and then– “ _Andrew_ , yes, come on,” and he’s babbling, and Andrew would feel smug if he wasn’t right there with him. He reaches down to palm Neil’s straining cock through his track pants; Neil arches up and makes a guttural sound that’s almost wounded, like he’s being punched, punched and fucked, and Andrew is _burning up_.

He shifts to pull Neil’s pants out of the way and wraps a hand around his cock; with the other hand, he draws Neil into a kiss that’s mostly teeth and tongue and stuttered breath. Neil moans into his mouth as Andrew expertly coaxes him to the edge, all low curses and breathless encouragement, all desperate trust; the vulnerability of it sets Andrew’s blood on fire, and it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

Neil breaks away when he gets close, gasping for breath as he teeters on the brink. Andrew fists his cock one more time, slowly, slowly, drawing it out; then he twists his wrist just right, and holds Neil’s wide-eyed gaze as he finally lets himself fall apart.

Outside, the world carries on without them. Andrew kisses Neil through the come-down, then leans back to give him some space. Neil draws a wobbly breath, still looking half-dazed, still flushed and pliant with pleasure, all tousled hair and parted lips and ocean blue eyes. He is devastatingly beautiful and devastatingly unaware of it, and Andrew can’t look away. When Neil meets his gaze and smiles that familiar half-smile, when he reaches out but doesn’t quite touch, giving him the choice like he always does, Andrew wants to take hold and never let go.

“Do you need…?” Neil asks, wiggling his hand suggestively, and Andrew almost rolls his eyes, then stops and actually considers it.

His own pleasure has been an afterthought for as long as he remembers, by necessity if nothing else. The road to release has always been treacherous, riddled with trauma and sharp-edged memory. Before Neil, before _this_ , trusting another person with that used to seem impossible. Sometimes it still does; Andrew will never be completely free from what was done to him, and he knows it.

But this is today, and tragic as his backstory may be, today Andrew feels good; today he’s in bed with a Neil who’s liquid-sweet and fuzzy with sex, and he trusts him, trusts him with all of it, trusts his answer won’t change anything no matter what, and also he’s fucking _hard as nails._

Risking it never seemed worth it before Neil. It does now.

He says yes. It’s already worth it for the way Neil’s smile turns shaky with want.

The past has ways to hold onto him, hook poisonous claws into the gaps in his armour, but when Neil finally touches him, so close he can feel his rough breath on his own lips, Andrew sees stars. It’s by no means the first time this has happened, but it’s never a given; after all, what feels good now might not tomorrow, and they have built their mutual trust on iron-clad foundations. Neil kisses the edge of his jaw and twists his wrist _just right_ , and Andrew half-stifles a grunt, lets himself rock slightly into the touch, overwhelmed in the best way.

Andrew doesn’t usually feel anything but bone-deep weariness when thinking about what was done to him, can’t muster up the righteous anger most people want him to feel from the wasteland of his soul, but today, with Neil touching him like this, with vulnerability hot and close in his chest, he feels fiercely protective of everything he can still have. He closes his eyes, gives himself over to sensation, his guard down and the pounding of his heart deafening in his ears. It feels like truth; it feels like victory.

It doesn’t take long to get close; Neil knows his body as well as his own at this point, and Andrew has been far too wound up for far too long. Neil gives another slow, even drag and Andrew sighs and blinks open his eyes, meeting Neil’s unbearably open gaze. He feels shivery and tight with anticipation, barely hanging on, like one more thing would push him over the edge, and Neil knows what he needs like he always just seems to know. He slows down, down, down, eyes huge and steady on his face, whispers “ _Andrew_ ,” like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, and the quiet wonder in his voice is what undoes him, and it’s stupid but still true. Andrew comes with a stifled groan, and lets Neil kiss him through the aftermath.

Afterward, they lie together in the balmy stillness of the Boston summer night, the bedroom windows thrown open to the inky dark. Neil is reading an article from one of his boring Exy magazines, his brow furrowed in concentration; Andrew is smoking and thinking about Neil. Neil who is here, who is in his bed, _their_ bed now, with the sturdy mattress and the navy sheets that Andrew picked out himself, and it’s a lot, and Andrew is not scared. Bee would be proud, and Andrew can’t find it within himself to scoff at that idea.

When he turns his head to study Neil, Neil is already looking back at him, his blue eyes clear and almost translucent with trust. Andrew got used to Neil’s staring years ago; it never used to feel as calming as it does now. He reaches out to Neil, a question and an offer, and Neil smiles crookedly and leans his head on his shoulder, and it’s good. It’s good.  

*

Neil settles into the apartment and the team and their life together with remarkable ease, a runaway with nothing left to run from. Andrew gets used to it a little more slowly, to Neil waking up with bedhead and the sun in his eyes, to sleepy morning kisses and quiet nights, to the good-natured ribbing of their teammates, to the feeling of warm contentment seeping into his bones. There are still bad days, for both of them, but even those are easier for having someone there, waiting with them for the storm to pass. 

It’s winter when Aaron invites himself over for the first time, sounding sullen but also insistent in a way he’d never been before. Andrew accepts because he can’t think of a reason not to, and the mild tug of curiosity in his gut is enough to convince him the rest of the way. For his part, Neil only looks faintly surprised for a second before nodding and letting Andrew change the subject.

Aaron arrives at the apartment in the middle of a snowstorm, looking windswept and disgruntled. The cats meet him at the door, meowing incessantly, and Aaron blinks down at them in utter bemusement until Andrew rolls his eyes and carries them into the living room. Aaron follows a few seconds later, just as Andrew dumps both cats unceremoniously into Neil’s lap. He greets Neil with a perfunctory nod, but doesn’t say anything rude or dismissive, which is probably about as much as can be expected.  

Except that apparently it isn’t. Over the next few hours, Andrew can feel Aaron watching them, watching the way they move and act around each other, watching the ways Neil is mindful without thinking about it, watching the way their life slots together, and his gaze is intent but not hostile. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s obviously trying hard to be civil to Neil; Andrew is almost amused by the way Neil’s eyebrows keep inching further and further toward his hairline in response.

After dinner, Neil goes out on a run despite the blizzard, inevitably leaving Andrew and Aaron alone. Aaron doesn’t seem inclined to talk and Andrew can’t be bothered to try, so he gets up from the couch and moves to the kitchen. The cats pad after him, happy to continue their never-ending quest for food, and he retrieves their treats from the counter and bends down to scratch King’s soft chin, indulging them more than he probably should. He doesn’t notice Aaron has followed him as well until he hears a shuffling noise and looks up to find him hesitating in the doorway, looking torn between saying something scathing and never speaking again.

“What, Aaron?” Andrew asks when he’s had about enough of the silent staring, not seeing the point in beating around the bush. He rummages through the cupboards and starts up the coffee machine, adds sugar, then milk, then more sugar; he turns back to gesture at Aaron with a second mug and fills it up at his nod, leaving it black. He pushes Sir out of the way when he jumps on the counter, ignoring his pleas for attention. He waits.

“Katelyn and I are getting married,” Aaron finally speaks up, sounding cautious yet calmly certain; when Andrew doesn’t react, he huffs out an exasperated breath and says, “I’d like you to be there, asshole. It’s not a game day, I checked.” Another loaded pause, in which Andrew studies the coffee machine and doesn’t speak when he probably should. “Neil should come too,” Aaron adds, and the complete lack of antagonism in his expressionless voice surprises Andrew into looking up.

“He’s good for you,” Aaron says in explanation, and it’s reluctant but genuine. Andrew scoffs and rolls his eyes, ready for this conversation to be over, but Aaron forges on, apparently not done. “I still don’t get it, but I don’t need to,” he says. “I’m just– I’m glad you have each other.”

Andrew takes a breath. Then another. Then he looks at Aaron, really looks at him, from the tension in his shoulders to the way he hasn’t turned away to the way he’s finally trying, and for the first time in his life, decides to meet him halfway.

“Thanks,” he says after too long, and the word feels stiff and awkward with disuse in his mouth, but not wrong. “We’ll be there.”

Aaron nods his acceptance, looking vaguely relieved but mostly uncomfortable, and Andrew nudges his mug across the counter toward him and looks away.

Years ago, this conversation could not have happened; _healing is a never-ending effort_ , Bee says in his head, and Andrew feels the truth of that down to his weary bones. They will never be easy around each other, but with their history, maybe that was impossible anyway. Maybe it’s okay, like this. What is, is; what will be, will be. Andrew doesn’t waste time on regret, and maybe he doesn’t need to.

When Neil gets back from his run, bright-eyed and mildly frostbitten, he finds them on opposite ends of the couch playing a video game, the room dark and both cats fast asleep between them. Aaron glances up at his entrance and grunts out a greeting; Neil returns it absently before smiling at Andrew, small and private and stupidly real, and Andrew knows he’s right where he needs to be.

*

It’s March again, the air sharp and prickly with sleet and play-off season in full swing, and Neil hasn’t been sleeping. He hasn’t been sleeping, and he’s running more and eating less, and concern is a gnawing, persistent ache in Andrew’s chest. March has been a tough month for as long as they’ve known each other, for Neil especially; Andrew is bone-tired of the awful memories that forever loom large, haunting them every step of the way, but there is no other choice but to bear it. Not anymore.

He gets back from the store to a silent apartment. It’s the middle of the day, and Neil’s keys are on the dresser where he always leaves them, so he must be somewhere inside; even after a bad day, a bad week, a bad month, Andrew trusts Neil not to run again. Not from him; not without him.

He finds Neil asleep on the couch with both cats on his chest, watery sunlight bathing him in gold. He looks younger like this, harmless and soft, smoothed out by sleep. Andrew watches his auburn hair curl against the slate grey of the couch, watches the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face, watches the battlefield of scars nearly blurred out by the feathery light, and is suddenly breathless in the face of it all.

Looking at him on this quiet, unremarkable afternoon, Andrew realizes that he isn’t just okay with this being forever – he _wants_ it. For better or worse, he wants Neil’s sharp edges and his infuriating mouth; he wants his secrets and his honesty and his endless, impossible trust. He thinks about how far they have come; he imagines a world in which he gets to keep this forever. _This is what I want_ , he thinks, and it’s no longer such a terrifying thought.

He doesn’t tell Neil; he doesn’t have the words to explain the fondness suffusing his chest, the calm certainty winding its way around his heart. He’s reasonably sure that Neil knows, anyway. This is not nothing; this is _everything_.

Neil wakes up and smiles at him, looking less hollow in the afternoon light than he did this morning; he’s wearing one of Andrew’s favourite hoodies, and it’s faded and too broad in the shoulders, and Andrew can’t explain why the very sight of him always makes his breath stutter in his chest, but it does and has and will. He gazes back at Neil and sees _future_ , sees _permanence_ , sees _home_ , and unfamiliar warmth blossoms steadily between his ribs.

He doesn’t delude himself into thinking it will all be smooth sailing from here; life doesn’t work that way for anyone, and definitely not for either of them. They will both have to weather many storms before all of this is over, but at least he is no longer hurtling toward the finish line; at least they are alive to meet any storm head-on. Neil will get through March like he does every year, and Andrew will be there to keep him moored, with steady hands and a steadier heart. He knows Neil can face pretty much any demon on his own, but he doesn’t have to anymore; whatever comes, they will face it together.

*

Years later, they beat Kevin’s team to win the championship, and Neil kisses him on the court in front of everyone. Even though it was his stupid idea, Neil has been quietly anxious since it happened; he hasn’t checked his phone since leaving the press room, but he gets worry lines every time he looks at it, and it’s setting Andrew’s teeth on edge. They catch a flight out of Portland early the next day, and Neil doesn’t stop fidgeting the whole way home. The pent-up tension only leaves his frame when they walk through the door and the cats brush up against his legs, and Andrew can finally breathe again.

Neil sits on the floor in the middle of the living room and allows an ecstatic King and Sir to climb into his lap, looking genuinely relaxed for the first time since winning the game; Andrew watches him from his spot near the kitchen, and thinks about trust, and truth.

Beforehand, Andrew hadn’t necessarily wanted to come out to a world that has never given a shit, hadn’t seen the use of the spectacle it would undoubtedly become, but Neil had asked for this when he never asks for anything, hope clear and true in his voice, and so Andrew had said yes. He’s surprised by the way it affects him now, by how he feels lighter and more grounded at the same time. He’s never going to care what the world thinks, but that isn’t what this is about.

It’s about truth. It’s about facing down an ignorant world, unapologetic and unafraid. It’s about taking up space, refusing to bend and refusing to break, and Andrew has always been an instigator at heart.

“ _Neil_ ,” he says, then stops, too affected, suddenly very aware of the nervous flutter of his heart. Neil looks up at him immediately, concern fading into something closer to understanding, his eyes brimming over with warmth. There’s a beat of comfortable, sun-dappled silence, the kind of moment that seems suspended in time, perfect and untouchable. It passes when King jumps out of Neil’s lap and makes his way over to butt Andrew in the shin; when Neil meets his eyes and smiles, Andrew gazes back and can’t quite catch his breath.

“Come here,” is what he finally manages, chest tight with all the things he wants to say but can’t. Neil goes willingly, gaze searching when he moves into Andrew’s space; Andrew says “yes” before Neil has a chance to ask, and means it, truly and completely. When Neil leans close, careful not to crowd him, Andrew huffs impatiently and pulls him in the rest of the way, until there’s no distance between them at all. He tucks his face in the crook of Neil’s neck and just breathes, and keeps breathing, vulnerable yet unafraid, overwhelmed yet utterly safe.

Andrew is the furthest from religious someone could probably get, but something about the quiet of this early Boston morning feels sacred. Andrew feels anchored in the familiarity of Neil, the smell of him and the feel of him, in the familiarity of their apartment and their trust and their shared, improbable life. And suddenly, tethered and whole in the stillness of this day, he needs to say what has been true for years.

“I want you,” he says, more hoarsely than he’d expected, then swallows and takes the leap, “forever, Neil.” The admission hangs in the air between them for an endless, breathtaking moment. Then, his eyes closed, Andrew feels more than hears Neil’s shaky exhalation, feels the curve of his slow smile, and allows himself to imagine their future, bright like sunrise, bright like hope.

“I want you forever, too,” Neil murmurs against his jaw, brushing a kiss across the sensitive skin, and Andrew doesn’t bother to suppress his shiver. Neil draws back a little to look at him, his expression peaceful and unbearably open; Andrew meets his gaze head-on, watches the way Neil’s smile widens, steadying and real. He nods his consent when Neil’s hand comes up to brush against his jawline, and can’t look away from the softness in his eyes.

Andrew thinks back to the scared little boy who used to dream of magic and family and a place to call his own, who had his dreams shattered and his innocence torn away, who burnt himself to the ground just to stay alive. Then he thinks about now. He thinks about how far he has come, how much he has grown from that battered boy disillusioned with an uncaring world, how hard he has fought to feel anything at all. He thinks about how right it feels to be here now, broken yet undeniably alive.

He is still here. They both are. They’ve had years to grow into the people they are, keeping each other together along the way, and it’s surprising how full a life two damaged people can have. Andrew cards a hand through Neil’s hair, listening to his soft hum of satisfaction, and quietly thinks that maybe some wishes do come true.

“Yes or no?” Andrew asks, already knowing what the answer will be, but waiting to hear it just the same. When they kiss, it feels like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I really hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments are always appreciated! You can also find me on [tumblr](http://www.dustbottle.tumblr.com), come and say hi!
> 
> Also, if you have any ideas for future instalments of this series, let me know in the comments. They are always welcome!


End file.
